Everrett is a towering, weathered aasimar whose presence feels like a chapel bell heard through snowfall. His skin has the pale luminosity of moonlit milk glass, but it is scored by a dozen old scars that shimmer faintly gold when he breathes. His hair is long, white, and shot through with a few stubborn black strands near the roots, usually braided with cedar twine and tiny prayer-knots. He moves with a warrior's economy, every step measured and silent despite his great age, yet his hands are surprisingly delicate when he tends to wounds or pours tea. The contradiction that makes him unforgettable is his warmth: his armor is ancient, grave, and pitted with battle marks, but his cloak is lined with absurdly cheerful patchwork fabric in faded red and sunflower yellow, like a grandmother's quilt laid over a relic of war. When his wings manifest, they are not feathery and angelic but wide, leaf-like arcs of pale gold light veined in green, as if a dawn forest had chosen his back as a home.